by Brandt Legg
“Enough of that,” Gale said, sitting on a window ledge. “Will you meditate with me again?”
“What, here?”
“Yes, there’s no better place than nature to connect with yourself.” She smiled. “No distractions, no pressures.”
“No distractions, no pressures? Have you forgotten that the FBI, and who knows who else, are after us?”
“Clear your mind, Rip. It will help you make better decisions, and maybe to see differently into the Eysen.”
“Gale, there’s something else I’ve been wanting to tell you, and strangely, this old ruined church seems an appropriate place.”
Gale’s concern grew as Rip’s face became strained again.
He moved over and leaned against a tree nearer to her. She couldn’t imagine how this situation could get any worse or more complicated.
“What is it?” Gale asked, while trying to find his eyes; they were following a squirrel skittering across the top of the south wall and onto an overhanging branch.
“It’s pretty serious.” He returned her stare. “I know who killed Josh.”
Her eyes squinted in a painful expression. The intensity of her visible emotion moved him. “Who?”
“Agents for the Vatican killed him.”
She looked at him disbelievingly. “The Vatican has agents? That kill? How do you even know this?”
“An old friend of mine told me.”
“How does your old friend know?”
“He’s Booker Lipton.”
“The Booker Lipton?” Gale knew of Booker from her days covering Wall Street. “Rip, are you kidding me? Booker Lipton is a ruthless profiteer, he doesn’t care about anything other than money, he’s . . . ”
Rip cut her off. “He’s my friend.” His eyes grabbed hers. “Do you know him?”
“No, but . . . ”
“Don’t believe everything you read.”
“I don’t, but I wrote some of it.”
He laughed. “I’m sure Booker won’t hold that against you.” Rip went on to explain how Booker had always privately helped him and recited a long list of the good Booker had also secretly done for others. Gale couldn’t believe that Rip was describing a man, known as one of the most cut-throat tycoons since Rockefeller and the robber barons, as some sort of modern-day Robin Hood. “And that’s just what I know about. I think half of the poor kids in the country are going to college on his dime.”
“I had no idea.”
“No one does. He prefers the shark image, which suits him well in business, but he wants the money for other reasons.”
Gale knew for a fact Booker had routinely destroyed whole communities by closing factories, shipping jobs overseas and laying off tens of thousands. He had been investigated by nearly every US and European oversight agency; in multiple industries, and twice been acquitted on bribery charges. But she saw no point in arguing anymore about him; as Rip seemed to only see Booker’s alleged good side. She sliced a couple of apples into wedges. “I knew the Catholic Church had been involved in wars and tortures over the centuries, but that they’re still resorting to such tactics in the modern era- it’s hard to believe.”
“It’s true. Plots, murders, even worse . . . they’ve never stopped. The Vatican just developed its own stealth network and learned the value of good PR.”
“So, why did they kill Josh?” Gale cried. “Did they murder him in the name of God?”
“Sadly, there have been many others . . . so many others.”
Chapter 25
Larsen turned and stared at the pistol pointed at him. Larsen’s options flashed – fight or flight – and neither seemed viable. “Who are you?” he asked, holding up his hands.
“It’s okay; I’m one of the good guys, so to speak,” Janet Harmer said. “I work for Booker; we left you the note.”
“You took out those agents?”
“Not for long. Four of them are just over the dunes looking for you.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
She looked at Larsen, “Man, I’m the only one you can trust right now. You’re in way deep.”
“If you’re here to help me, why are you pointing a gun at me? Where’s your green ball cap?”
Harmer looked down and smiled. She zipped the pistol in a hip pack. “You might have run, or pulled a weapon on me. Come on, let’s get moving, we’re out of time. The man in the green cap is waiting.”
Larsen didn’t want to make this choice; he wanted to be in Madagascar on a dig, or anywhere but here. Instead, he licked his lips, thought of running, held back the frustrated, rage-filled scream welling inside, and simply asked, “Where are we going?”
“Let’s keep on the way you’re heading; we need to get to the car.”
The beach grew more crowded every minute, especially down near the busy pier. The crowds worked well for Larsen and Harmer, who exited the dunes a few minutes later. They made it to the car moments before Lambert – the man in the green ball cap – and, incredibly, the three of them were driving on 98-West heading to Panama City before the four agents realized that Larsen Fretwell had likely escaped the beach.
Hall nearly had to restrain Barbeau physically, he wanted to fly to Florida and “personally take the agents onto the pier and kick their asses.” He simply could not believe the sloppiness. “It’s a flippin’ repeat of Fredericksburg!” he shouted. “Why can’t we get this right? Are we chasing Houdini here or what?” He was fuming. They still didn’t have a trace of Gaines, and now their two best leads – Sean Stadler and Larsen Fretwell – had slipped right through their fingers. To make matters worse, the FBI Director was on the phone for an update. Earlier in his career, Barbeau had worked the Eric Rudolph case, the Olympic Park bomber who had eluded capture for five years, hiding out in the mountains of North Carolina. If this case went that way, Barbeau would be heading for a private sector job very soon. He and Hall were called back to Washington to regroup and reassess.
Hall phoned his girlfriend on the way. She was worried about the tension in his voice, his stress level, and asked if he’d been having bad dreams. “No,” he lied, not wanting her to worry. Her concerns only added to his stress, and he knew she believed dreams were messages. If they were, and the past two nights were any indication of what was ahead, then finding Gaines might just become a real nightmare.
“Where are we going?” Larsen demanded, as he continued to check the road behind them. Lambert was in the back seat on the phone with Booker.
“Out of Florida as fast as we can,” Harmer said, gripping the steering wheel with one hand while glancing at a map app on her phone with the other.
“Who were the guys at my house?”
“Lambert and I got there before sunrise and waited. The tough guy with the moustache showed up first. We’re pretty sure he’s a Vatican agent.”
“A Vatican agent!?” Larsen was sure he’d heard wrong.
“Yeah. We’re pretty sure,” she said, lighting a cigarette.
“Even if the Vatican had thugs like that guy, which I don’t believe, why would he be coming to see me?”
“He wasn’t there for a weekend at the beach.” Harmer took her eyes from the road long enough to give Larsen a ‘let this sink in’ kind of look. “He was there to kill you.”
“Why?”
“Same reason they offed your buddy in Virginia.” She exhaled a thick stream of smoke.
“Josh? You’re saying Vatican agents killed Josh?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Larsen demanded again.
“That, I couldn’t tell you.”
Larsen looked out the window while trying to grasp this insane story.
“Anyway,” Harmer continued, “we surprised him, and knocked him cold, but he’ll live. We’d just finished tying him up when the FBI showed. They only sent one agent into the house ‘cause they figured it was empty. He was gonna wait while the other one took up a position on the beach. The other two agents got there after you.”
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“You assaulted a federal agent?” Larsen shook his head.
“As I said, he thought the place would be empty so it was easy to get the drop on him. We stashed him in our makeshift holding cell, but couldn’t stick around with more heat on the way. I wrote you the note, left it where you couldn’t miss it and we headed onto the beach.”
“Is this a typical day for you? Beating up a priest and a cop?”
Harmer laughed loudly. “It ain’t nothing but a thing.”
“I’m going to get blamed for that- back there.”
“He wasn’t a priest, if that makes you feel better,” Harmer said, still laughing.
“But the other one was an FBI agent. This is crazy.”
“Don’t worry,” Lambert said from the back seat. “Booker Lipton is on your side. A little thing like the FBI shouldn’t bother you.” He patted Larsen’s shoulder.
The Vatican agent was taken to a hospital with a concussion. Barbeau wanted him brought in for questioning, but an order came from above to release the man. An unhappy Dover threatened to cut off the ongoing updates his office had been providing, but he reconsidered, based on promises from Rome that they would not interfere again.
Pisano redirected Nanski and Leary from Erie, to check out Gale’s place in Washington. Their next stop would be Harpers Ferry, a quaint historic mountain town in West Virginia at the confluence of the Potomac and Shenandoah Rivers, where the constantly traveling Professor Ripley Gaines kept a small apartment. It was one of his favorite places, even if he spent less than four weeks a year there. The FBI had searched and was watching both places; but, in spite of the assurances given to the Attorney General, Pisano needed more information.
Chapter 26
Gale and Rip had decided to view the Eysen again back at the house, where he could take notes on his laptop. Topper was there, trimming the boxwood hedges when they returned.
Gale called out as Topper waved. “Care to join us for lemonade inside, where it’s cool?”
Rip pointed to his pack. “We need to do the Eysen.”
“He’s too old to be working out in this heat,” Gale whispered. “I’m sure he won’t stay long.”
“Topper, too old? He’ll outlive us both; I promise you that.”
Once inside, she poured them each a glass, and asked Topper about the ruins.
Topper smiled. “Miss, you should know this old house keeps many secrets,” he said in his thick southern drawl. He gestured toward the window. “The land has even more stories, but they get covered up with the fallin’ leaves of time.”
She took Topper’s hand. “Tell me about those stories.” Gale loved old people and had a way of putting them at ease. She treasured their stories, and always asked a million questions.
Rip considered going outside alone to examine the Eysen.
“Oh, I’ve haven’t told those tales for a long time, Miss,” He smiled again and then looked out the window, past the trees, into another time.
“Topper, we don’t want to bore Gale with a bunch of mountain history,” Rip said.
“But she’s in this here trouble with you, Ripley. Don’t you think it’s only right if she knows the beginnin’ of it?” Topper said, turning back to Rip.
Gale looked from Topper to Rip, stunned. “What’s he mean, Rip? The beginning of what? How does he know about our trouble?”
“Topper, this isn’t connected to that,” Rip said, shaking his head.
“Connected to what?” Gale asked again. “How does he know?”
“Miss, some folks got troubles so great the trees talk about it years and years ‘fore it comes.”
“Topper, maybe you should head on home now,” Rip said, standing up.
“No,” Gale protested.
“Ripley, I’ve always known you to do the right thing . . . and rightly she should know.”
“One of you better tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Damn it.” Rip exclaimed, pushing his hand through his shaggy brown hair. Ever since his mother’s death, when Rip was a teen, he’d had trouble trusting women. She’d promised repeatedly that the cancer wouldn’t kill her. In the nearly twenty-five years since, his chiseled face, shy smile, and bright hazel eyes had left the often-brooding Rip with his pick of female companions, but thus far, none had been able to compete with ancient history. But with Cosega found, it might be time to trust someone else. He gave a single nod to Topper.
“Cause you know, it begins this way. Ol’ Mr. Scott always told us, you need to know these things. He said his granddad had put it to him that way. This line must carry on down, until it gets to where it needs to go,” Topper said, looking at Rip. “It seemed a strange phrase at the time, but you know, we always took that part to be important. Ol’ Mr. Scott was a serious sort.”
Topper lifted his glass, took a sip, then looked sadly into the bottom. Rip found the pitcher, “More lemonade?”
“Oh, good, yes, yes.” He held a finger to his lips.
Gale patted his knee, “Topper, you were telling us . . . ”
“It would be around 1937. I guess I was eight or nine then.” He scratched his short grey hair and adjusted his gold-wire eyeglasses. “Ol’ Mr. Scott was close to ninety then, see, my best friend was Billy Scott, he sold the place to Ripley’s uncle, but old Mr. Scott was Billy’s granddad.”
“So he would have been born around 1846?” Gale asked.
“I remember he was born in 1847, on account of we had his hundredth birthday party a few weeks after I graduated high school, and that was in ‘47. That man lived to be a hundred and three.” Topper laughed. “You know what? He learned to drive an automobile when he was seventy-two.”
“And what did he tell you about this place, Topper?”
“Yes, yes. You know he told us so many things. I reckon you’ll be wantin’ to know the mysteries. The secret room off the library is just the first knowin’ from the whispers.”
Gale was confused; Rip silenced her with a glance.
“Back in the cabin days, before this place was built, in the time of ol’ Mr. Scott’s granddad, there were many folks comin’ by on their way to someplace. See, then, the stops with buildings were rare, you would just sleep in a field or in the woods, but when you could get to a cabin or so, then that was a busy place sometimes.”
Gale nodded.
“So ol’ Mr. Scott’s granddad welcomed them in and he met all kinds of characters – mountain men, trappers, you know, holy people, Indians – Cherokee and Seminole – farmers, explorers, soldiers, the whole sordid lot on this young continent seemed to pass right by his old cabin.”
In spite of her unsettledness, Gale was fascinated by this strange old man and his story. She refilled their glasses.
“That’s tart, I like it that way,” Topper smiled. “Anyhow, one day an old blacksmith came by and just, well, fell in love with the place. He was headin’ somewhere or other, but never did leave. And you know, back then, once you have a blacksmith, you just about have a town.” He walked over to one of the bookcases. “In no time at all, just a few years went by and people were settlin’ in, maybe twenty families or so, and they decided to build a mighty church.”
“My Clastier Castle,” Rip said to Gale.
“Yes, son, that’s a fact, and there was some story about why they wanted this kind of big place, and I don’t quite recall just now, but it was somethin’ to do with one of them passersby. Yes, someone came by, stayed a while, and that was the reason they wanted such a big church.” He took a long drink of lemonade, “But son, it’s been too many years since I’ve thought about such things.” Topper winked at Gale. “The shame of it was, the church caught fire less than a year after it was done, when just about the whole town was inside.”
“What happened?” Gale pleaded.
“See, the fire came in all around the church, the forest in flames, and both doors were burnin’. They all huddled together in the back corner, kind of knowin’ they were done for. Then the roof
came down and, about that time, most of the survivors later said they saw a glowing star or somethin’ up through the flames in the ceiling; only it was daytime. Anyway, the roof fell toward the front of the building, the windows blew out, and most of the fire went with it. The woods still burned some ways yonder, but the fire was done and they all survived.”
“Wow, how’d the fire go out?”
He looked at them both with a very serious expression, “On account of Clastier.”
“Who was he?” she demanded.
“Oh, Miss, we were never to speak of him; it is the greatest of secrets.”
“Still?” Gale begged.
“Sweet gal, it’s even more a secret today than at the time of that terrible fire.”
“What does Clastier have to do with the trouble we’re in now? You said I should know.”
Rip shook his head but continued, reluctantly, to defer to Topper.
“Just two months ago, Frank Muller died in a motorcycle accident.” Topper paused, his eyes focused on some distant place or time. “That leaves only two surviving descendents of the original builders.” He closed his eyes for a long moment. “To my mind, there can’t be much that the hunt for Clastier didn’t affect. And,” he said opening his eyes, looking straight at Rip, “they’re still searching.”
“Who’s searching, and who was Clastier?” Gale implored.
“It’s a long way back to find the beginnings of his story. But you gotta start with the youngest descendent.” He looked directly at Rip.
“You?” Gale asked Rip.
He nodded.
“You owe me these answers,” Gale said. Rip had thought about telling her the whole story, and even wanted to show Topper the Eysen, but he’d been hoping to have more time to think about it; so much was at stake. Rip needed to know just what the Eysen contained. Here he was, with the man he trusted more than any other and a woman he wasn’t sure he should.
“There is danger in the knowing,” Topper told Gale, in an emotional tone. “You need to understand that a force you think is good in this world, is something else, and they want Clastier silenced forever.” He measured her face in order to gauge the impact. “The Vatican has been after Clastier for nearly two hundred years.”